Hi guys. We've all been putting in long hours but we've really come together as a group and I love that. Big thanks to Omar for putting up the poster that says "There is no 'I' in team" as well as the one that says

"Hang In There, Baby." That cat is hilarious. However, while we are fighting a jihad, we can't forget to take care of the cave. And frankly I have a few concerns.

First of all, while it's good to be concerned about cruise missiles, we should be even more concerned about the scorpions in our cave. Hey, you don't want to be stung and neither do I so we need to sweep the cave daily.

I've posted a sign up sheet near the main cave opening.

Second, it's not often I make a video address but when I do, I'm trying to scare the most powerful country on earth, okay? That means that while we're taping, please do not ride your razor scooter in the background. Just while we're taping. Thanks.

Third point, and this is a touchy one. As you know, by edict, we're not supposed to shave our beards. But I need everyone to just think hygiene, especially after mealtime. We're all in this together.

Fourth: food. I bought a box of Cheez-Its recently, clearly wrote "Osama" on the front, and put it on the top shelf. Today, my Cheez-Its were gone.

Consideration. That's all I'm saying.

Finally, we've heard that there may be American soldiers in disguise trying to infiltrate our ranks. I want to set up patrols to look for them. First patrol will be Omar, Muhammed, Abdul, Akbar, and Richard.

One night, George W. Bush is awakened by George Washington's ghost in the White House. Bush asks: "George, what is the best thing I could do to help the country?"

"Set an honest and honorable example, just as I did," Washington advises.

The next night, the ghost of Thomas Jefferson moves through the dark bedroom. "Tom," W asks, "what is the best thing I could do to help the country?"

"Cut taxes and reduce the size of government," Jefferson advises.

Bush isn't sleeping well the next night, and sees another figure moving in the shadows. It's Abraham Lincoln's ghost. "Abe, what is the best thing I could do to help the country?" Bush asks. Abe answers: "Go see a play."

Okay so nobody liked that last joke - let's try this one instead ... note to self - no more jokes with Abe Lincoln in them ....

QUOTE

Basement Files: Dear Saddam

In October, the fifth-grade Model United Nations from Des Moines' Anthony Wayne Elementary School began a class project of corresponding with Iraqi President Saddam Hussein. Aware that the real United Nations had been unable to coerce the brutal dictator into peaceful, verifiable disarmament, the fifth-graders took the unusual step of e-mailing the Iraqi leader with a direct plea on behalf of the world's children. Here is Hussein's unexpected response and the lively exchange of ideas that followed.

(October 17, 2002)

Dear Becky,

I'm gratified to see children as young as you and your classmates taking an active interest in world affairs. It bodes well for the future diplomatic relations between both of our countries. Please accept my best wishes.

Yours,

Saddam Hussein

(October 22, 2002)

Dear President Hussein,

Thank you for writing back, but you still didn't answer my question. Will you please dismantle your stockpile of weapons and start being nice to the Kurds?

Becky Myricks

President, Model United Nations

(October 26, 2002)

Dear Becky,

Okay, look, I've been a pretty good sport about all this. I'm glad you got your picture in the paper. I'm sure your parents were very proud. But I couldn't believe that mawkish, fawning story in the Des Moines Register ("Brave Little Girl Stands Up to Evil Madman"). I'm always amazed by the absurd civic boosterism of these small-town papers. "Those who know the headstrong 11-year-old say they wouldn't be one bit surprised if Becky Myricks ended up as America's first female president."

Please. Tell me, is the little article already framed and hanging in your cramped living room? Soon, its presence will taunt you as each passing year sees promise and reality recede like passing trains. Who can ever live up to such early and extravagant billing? Certainly not you, dear Becky, with your masculine arm hair and borderline lazy eye.

Yours,

Saddam Hussein

P.S. Is it me, or is Jason Simczak, that unfortunate boy with the leg braces, staring at you with moony-eyed longing these days?

(November 1, 2002)

Dear Sadman,

Okay, Jason showed me the note where I tell him I love him. How did you do that? It took me about an hour to prove that wasn't my handwriting. I don't make my Ys anything like that, Sadman. Oh, and nobody uses Lisa Frank notepads anymore. Duh! But I liked the sparkly gel pen. That was a nice touch. By the way, you'll be sorry you were mean to me.

Becky

(November 6, 2002)

Dear Becky,

Here's the thing about prank phone calls. The best ones require some knowledge of the victim's culture. Mohammed bin Dover? Does Dover strike you as a common surname in my country? The insult doesn't even translate directly into Arabic. And I won't even comment on the "Iraqi Ricardo" foolishness. Come on, you're better than this.

P.S. Sadman isn't funny. Try again.

(November 11, 2002)

Dear President Insane,

Yesterday, someone claiming to be the school nurse called my father at work and told him I'd suffered a T-4 spinal cord injury on the playground. He was instructed to rush immediately to Iowa Lutheran Hospital and sign some consent forms. What do you know about this?

(November 15, 2002)

Becky,

While I have no firsthand knowledge of the incident, I imagine that was one anxious and harrowing drive to the hospital. But do you take my meaning about a successful prank call? Some gnawing seed of doubt must be planted in the victim's mind. It's not enough to ask that a funny name be paged publicly. Do you see?

Best,

Saddam

(November 24, 2002)

Dear Saddamy,

Last Thursday, before school had even started, someone put up about eight giant posters saying the Model United Nations bake sale goods were tainted with E. coli, salmonella and other "icky things." No one showed up, we didn't make any money and I HATE YOUR GUTS. Are you happy now?

Becky

(November 26, 2002)

Becky,

How very curious. Perhaps we should all be careful about accusing our enemies of possessing chemical and biological agents that don't exist. There's a lesson there. Oh, and Saddamy isn't funny either.

Saddam

(December 4, 2002)

Becky,

I'm so very sorry to hear about the mix-up regarding invitations to Ashley's Crandall's birthday/slumber party. I can't imagine what might have happened to that Britney Spears envelope with the heart-shaped confetti inside. HA! To think that you were invited, after all. All that needless suffering. All those pitiful, tear-stained entries in your diary. And then, your vengeful miscalculation to snub Ashley in return. How that backfired. A once-strong friendship now in tatters. How very, very sad for you.

Yours,

Saddam

(December 8, 2002)

Dorkwad,

I don't care. I hate Ashley's guts. She thinks she's all grown up 'cause she's got breasts already. Big breasts. I should send you her picture from my pool party. Maybe I will. You'd probably drool all over it, pervert man.

Becky

(December 14, 2002)

Becky,

It might seem very funny to send an e-mail virus to a man's computer under the subject line "I Crave Iraqi Cock," but let me assure it's not funny at all. Because of your little prank, some launch codes, some VERY IMPORTANT LAUNCH CODES, were destroyed. That's taking things a bit too far.

(December 16, 2002)

Sad,

Whatever!

(December 20, 2002)

Becky,

Well, my first copy of the American gay magazine Mandate, again with the address label Saddamy Hussein, arrived in the palace mailbox yesterday. As you undoubtedly know, some acts of homosexuality are punishable by death in my country and I've been at great pains to explain the appearance of such filth amid my personal belongings. I bow to your wickedness, my friend, but this will not stop here.

"Right now," said Paddy, after a moment's calculation, "there is myself, my cousin Sean, my next door neighbor Seamus, and the entire dart team from the pub. That makes eight!"

Osama paused. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have one million men in my army waiting to move on my command."

"Begorra!", said Paddy. "I'll have to ring you back!"

Sure enough, the next day, Paddy called again. "Mr. Laden, the war is still on! We have managed to acquire some infantry equipment!"

"And what equipment would that be, Paddy?" Osama asked.

"Well, we have two combines, a bulldozer, and Murphy's farm tractor."

Osama sighed. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 16,000 tanks and 14,000 armored personnel carriers. Also, I've increased my army to 11/2 million since we last spoke."

"Saints preserve us!" said Paddy. "I'll have to get back to you."

Sure enough, Paddy rang again the next day. "Mr. Laden, the war is still on! We have managed to get ourselves airborne! We've modified Harrigan's ultralight with a couple of shotguns in the cockpit, and four boys from the Shamrock Pub have joined us as well!"

Osama was silent for a minute and then cleared his throat. "I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 10,000 bombers and 20,000 fighter planes. My military complex is surrounded by laserguided, surfacetoair missile sites. And since we last spoke, I've increased my army to TWO MILLION!"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!", said Paddy, "I'll have to ring you back."

Sure enough, Paddy called again the next day. "Top o' the mornin', Mr. Laden! I am sorry to tell you that we have had to call off the war."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Osama. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Well," said Paddy, "we've all had a long chat over a bunch of pints, and decided there's no way we can feed two million prisoners."

An Irish girl went to London to work as a secretary and began sending home money and gifts to her parents.

After a few years they asked her to come home for a visit, as her father was getting frail and elderly.

She pulled up to the family home in a Rolls Royce and stepped out wearing furs and diamonds.

As she walked into the house her father said, "Hmmm -they seem to be paying secretaries awfully well in London."

The girl took his hands and said "Da'...I've been meaning to tell you something for years but I didn't want to put it in a letter. I can't hide it from you any longer. I've become a prostitute."

Her father gasped, put his hand on his heart and keeled over. The doctor was called but the old man had clearly lost the will to live. He was put to bed and the priest was called.

As the priest began to administer Extreme Unction, with the mother and daughter weeping and wailing, the old man muttered weakly "I'm a goner, killed by my own daughter! Killed by the shame of what you've become!"

"Please forgive me," his daughter sobbed, "I only wanted to have nice things! I wanted to be able to send you money and the only way I could do it was by becoming a prostitute."

Brushing the priest aside, the old man sat bolt upright in bed, smiling. "Did you say prostitute? I thought you said Protestant!"

Father O'Malley rose from his bed. It was a fine spring day in his new Washington DC parish.

He walked to the window of his bedroom to get a deep breath of the beautiful day outside. He then noticed there was a jackass lying dead in the middle of his front lawn. He promptly called the US Senate for assistance.

The conversation went like this: "Good morning. This is Senator Daschle. How might I help you?"

"And the best of the day te yerself. This is Father O'Malley at St. Brigid's. There's a jackass lying dead in me front lawn. Would ye be so kind as to send a couple o' yer lads to take care of the matter?"

Senator Daschle, considering himself to be quite a wit, replied with a smirk, "Well now father, it was always my impression that you people took care of last rites!"

There was dead silence on the line for a long moment. Father O'Malley then replied:

"Aye, that's certainly true, but we are also obliged to notify the next of kin.

You're walking down a deserted street with your wife and two small children. Suddenly, a dangerous looking man with a huge knife comes around the corner and is running at you while screaming obscenities. In your pocket is a Glock .40 and you are an expert shot. You have mere seconds before he reaches you and your family. What do you do?

Liberal Answer: Well, that's not enough information to answer the question! Does the man look poor or oppressed? Have I ever done anything to him that would inspire him to attack? Could we run away? What does my wife think? What about the kids? Could I possibly swing the gun like a club and knock the knife out of his hand? What does the law say about this situation? What kind of gun is it? Does it have a safety device built into it? Why am I carrying a loaded gun and what kind of message does this send to society? Is it possible he'd be happy with just killing me? Does he definitely want to kill me or would he just be content to wound me? If I were to grab his knees and hold on, could my family get away while he was stabbing me? This is all so confusing! I need to debate this with some friends for a few days to try to come to a conclusion.